


In Which Les Amis Don't Actually Die ~ take 597,023,678, 990,117.05

by Jjazzandothersuchnonsense



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Gen, crossover AU, i feel like i kind of ignored what you asked for even though i didn't, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jjazzandothersuchnonsense/pseuds/Jjazzandothersuchnonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis carry on their tradition of the republic to a place that will need them, maybe even more then France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Les Amis Don't Actually Die ~ take 597,023,678, 990,117.05

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RavenXavier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/gifts).



> For Elodie,   
> I am so sorry. Bear with me. I've done better.

“Answer me, are you with the insurgents?”   
Jean Prouvaire pursed his lips, then raised his voice.  
“VIVA LA FRANCE! LONG LIVE THE FUTURE!”  
The order came then. He had not expected being shot to be as poetic and romantic as it was. It was supposed to be a nasty and humiliating affair, glorified by those who wish to excuse their (needless) crimes. But this. This was beautiful. The star like flar of the guns, clear in his eyes. The firm silhouettes behind with their said, glass eyes, peering over the shot. And beyond the flare, the glistening black shadows spun, using those eyes as an axes, and spun and spun and their song sounded like the ocean and wolfs and voices and a roar. 

He fell, not on his back as he had expected, but on his knees, as if there was something behind him that decided it didn't want him. His knees hit the ground, skidding over twigs and grass. He sat on his knees, hunched over his wounds, gazing at the forest floor.   
'Purgatory?' he wondered. But no, far to colorful. And quiet. Purgatory is filled with the wild things of the world, this place is still.   
Here there had once been the guards, he now saw out of the corner of his eye, massive trees. Hanging, where the guns had been, were curtains of red flowers. He lifted his head, and dropped it again with a gasp. Blood surged through his wounds. He wanted to moan, but sudden memory of Courfeyrac with gouging wounds and much moaning, and Jehan's own voice mocking him for sounding so foul. He lifted his head again, and he was the little rivers flittering about him. They were black, but flickering through were splashed blue, and red, and white. They circled closer, and he heard Joly's voice, as if just up the road.  
“Bahorel, Bahorel, you cannot keep running like this, you are all over with blood and I haven’t the - ” He broke off with a sob.  
“Easy Joly,” came Combeffere's voice. “Put pressure on it, and we will find him food, and keep it clean. There is no cause to worry, not now.”  
“Joly!,” Jehan shouted. “Combeffere, Bahorel!! Where are you, I'm shot, plea - ”   
But his shout had blown the shadows away, and the forest was still again.  
'Pressure,' he thought. 'Stop the blood from flowing, seal the gate of death.'   
He puyshed himself into the roots of a tree, clutching his stomach. Light filtered through the tree tops, the shadow rivers swan and flickered, but in a moment they were all still. 

The stillness held, for a moment, but the world started back again. The whispering eddies circled the sky’s, and the light blew through and cut into them, sending them off in little 'huuuffs.' He heard the crunch of feet on leaves and earth. He smelt sweat and flowers and wine.   
“I wonder though” said a smooth voice, “How he got so far past our borders, with out us or our friends being the wiser.”  
“With difficulty, it seems,” laughed another voice, this time the one that seemed to be carrying him. “But the captain will not like it, and the king even less, and will as soon kill him as lock him up, with how soon we are to march.”  
'An army,' Jehan thought. 'Where are you Bahorel, when I am all around with enemies.'

 

'When I am all around with enemies? When not a moment ago I was around with trees?! Neither of which are a city! There is not a forest so near Paris, and not one like this is all of France. I should know the best of any, I have been in all of them. And where is Bahorel, I thought I heard Joly speak of him?' 

That was the thought that opened his eyes. He saw clearly, without the strange shadows, which he had not done since the death of Bahorel. His eyes landed on the last speakers face. What he saw first were the ears, long and pointed, like the Fey he'd so often mimicked. And after, a sharp jaw and nose, long, braided hair, and eyes like the ones he'd seen give the order in Paris. He sucked in air, and the Fey looked down at him.   
“Ah, you are awake. That's good. How have you come to us then?” he did not sound pleased.   
“And without so much of a whisper of your presence till we find you near death,” said the other.   
“Why did you're eyes go all glass like that? When you were sleeping, they were erie and white. What did you dream of, I wonder?  
“Do you bring news from the cities of men? Must we prepare for a war on more then one front?”  
“Are you a warg? Would not be surprising, weak thing like you. Warg shifters are always thin and lanky, like you.” 

“Easy Haldon, Githrian,” said a third voice. “He has just woken, and dumb as a mule. Wait a bit.”

“Quite,” said the first Fey. “My apologies. Your name”  
“Ah..,” Where is Courfeyrac and his quick tongue? Might there be a better way, to met my first Fey? “Jehan... or... Jean Prouvaire... and where are we? Where are you taking me? And do you know how I came here?” 'Bad rhyming makes me flustered, I see', he added to himself.  
“Do you not know?” asked the second. Jehan shook his head, and winced. “Well, how ever odd you are... You are in Mirkwood, and we are the King's Guard. We are taking you to him. And now tell us, whe-”  
“But this is a forest?” Jehan cut in.   
“Thick, dense, deep as the sea,” confirmed the third voice. “Can you not see it?”  
“But I was in a city,” he was growing panicked. “I was in a city, my city, far from any forest, moments before!”   
The one carrying him stopped, and the others circled around him. 

“That is most strange,” murmured the third. “the ElfinKing hoes not need this grievance added to his list.”  
“Grievance?” asked the second. “This is far more then grievance, if dying city men can travel through our realm. “  
“And the dwarfs stir more trouble and we have not the time to protect against this, we ought to be at the Mountain by now.”  
“Mirthrandir is with them, or will be soon enough. Our answers will best come from him.”   
“I do not think the king will kill him, he is far to fair. No, I think the king will offer a place in his court. And if not, his dungeons. Killing would be far to easy, and he knows Mithrandir would spirit him away.”  
“We can always say he spoke against the king. How would you like that, little man? A traitor to the ElfinKing, but you might just go home.” They looked at him expectantly.  
'They must truly not want to face the king with me, if they will go this far...' Jehan thought. And lucky for them, I am most willing.  
“But I do speak against the king,” he said aloud. “My work, ere I was ripped away from it, was to ensure that no king ruled my land. What difference does it make to me, one king exchanged for another.  
“The ElfinKing is a dangerous enemy to have,” said one.   
“Then why are you making one of him?” he asked.   
“We have our ways. You will be unseen, and we will have no cause for fear.”  
“Harboring a traitor?,” said another. “What traitor? What would-be-king-slayer? I see none."  
“I want no part with kings," Jehan insisted. "None at all. One day they ought all to be gone."

The elfs looked at him skeptically.   
“Good luck,” said one. “This place is naught but kings.” 

The elf was right. For while he could not deny the splendor of the Elfin Halls and the army, the king's rule was tight, and often cruel. He answered only to few, and then not often. And when they marched in to the Battle of the Five Armies, he thought the same of the other kings. The king of men seemed fair, but all power rested in the kings, and any corruption in them was corruption in the country.   
The war its self seemed pointless, with gold and blood the only real rewards. 'The kings ought to just fight each other, save their men,' Jehan thought with a laugh. 'Or a champion. But this place is stuck in the dark ages. I have a life's work ahead of me, and I fear even that may not be enough. This place may well kill themselves.'  
He had given up on ever returning to France. For while he had told Mithrandir what he could, and the man had given it thought, he had other realms and wars to care for.   
“Even if I had the time to learn what I could of this,” he'd told Jehan before the dwarf king's funeral, “I doubt I would learn much. As it is, I haven't the time, and anyway (he looked at Jehan fiercely) I think you could do this place some good. I will be listening, and watching, and if I learn more I assure you I will tell you.”

And now, many years later, he was left to wonder the camps and fields of battle. Quite by chance (and he had no intention of telling how) he found the Arkenstone. It was as beautiful as it had been described. He wondered how it had survived being tossed and manhandled as it had been, the glass seemed so frail. His fingers brushed it. The light blue glittering through the white of the stone swiftly swept to black. The shadows and howling tossed themselves around him, and the world seemed centered on the few fingers of light the Arkenstone produced.   
'Bahorel,' he gasped out. 'Please, no, don't make me watch him die again.' He tried to pull back, but he was frozen in place, as he'd known he would be. And his vision was sucked into the stone. 

He was not made to watch his friends die. 

He watched Combeffere, Joly, and Bahoel, very much alive, in a white city carved into the side of a mountain. They lead their revolution, and brought their people out of the city, to begin a coastal town. The government was what they had planned for France, and for the time being it seemed to be sound. 

Bossuet and Courfeyrac were sent to a rainy country in the West, where the men were poor and rough, and lead by only a few, with little power. The world those two created was growing in commerce, with strong leaders, and citizens who knew, and were allowed, to rule themselves well. 

Enjolras woke in the land of horse men, and there learnt from the king and the horses how to lead with confidence and care, the better not to make the mistakes he had made before. Things his growing mind was now ready to hear, when it would not have before their deaths. From there he passed through Isengard to Rivendell, where he found Feuilly. 

Feuilly had learnt much from the fair folk, and the two returned to Isengard before the year was out. They parlayed with the ever graying White Hand, with little success. He continued with his warmongering, but their work was not worthless. 

From there they sought audience with the Lady Galaldriel, confirming Mithrandir's fears, and setting some people at the least on watch. 

 

And he watched as Enjolras and Feuilly traversed the East lands, pulling together their friends with messages and meetings. Grantiare was in Laketown now, asking after him. The elfs would leave soon, and men must chose to do away with kings, if they wished to survive. They were planning, slowly, a heritage of a republic for the sons of the kings. 

Joan Prouvaire pulled his hand back, and the black stone sunk to black. 

It was high time he joined them.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if that was (pretty much) nothing you requested. But no one's dead! And they are instead preparing them selves for some big time middle earth political battle. Woop.


End file.
